Up and down the City Road, in and out of The Easel; that’s the way the money goes…pop goes the weasel (not sure)

And so dear listener, there has only been one story this week; that of the horse-riders in Manchester who, having been refused at the Maccy D’s Drive-In, entered the main restaurant and eh, inadvertently left a horsey mess there. One tabloid tried to replicate it but the real replication came from some Clydebank equestrians (eh?) who tied up outside Greggs (y’know, the one next to Christies the Butchers) and, eh, entered to buy well, who knows what? Suggestions anyone?

I, myself, had a recent experience of the Maccy D’s in Linwood where, in the Clio with Buttons, we received a request for a quarter pounder (don’t even go there!). Now the problem (amongst many) is that the window on the driver’s side does not shut for about half an hour after it has been opened. So I don’t open it. So I have to get out and shove my money in the slot at the multi-storey car park but I know I need to do it.

Maccy D’s burger-servers are not used to seeing a whole body in front of them but they coped…….

Okay . Enuff procrastination.The royal baby. What about it?

I have no problems with Kate and Wills (eh?) sharing their baby with the nation. As it were. They seem a nice couple as I was saying to Harry’s father only the other day (No. I’m not going there, either. Don’t worry, my legal friends…).

No. It was the wall to wall coverage that annoyed me. Could we not just have put one camera on the weasel where the birth was to be officially announced? Maybe then it might have been in focus.

However, those who know me and my ego, will be well aware how much I would love to have been part of the traditional process whereby the eyes of the world would have seen me being the press guy taking the leather satchel out of the hospital to the waiting car; or being the passenger in the car with the motor-bike escort dashing to get the message to Buck Pal; or being one of the two people to walk out in front of all those people on the Mall to blu-tack (or whatever) the official notice to the weasel (and full play to the Sloane who milked her role by returning to make that one final adjustment to the weasel).

Meanwhile Clarence House had announced it on Twitter.

Twitter came under severe criticism from Nicholas ‘Scab’ Witchell who, when my new broadcasting hero Simon McCoy said that there was word that Katie’s hairdresser had gone in, dismissed it as a mere twittering. Katie’s hairdresser is Amanda Cook Tucker – a lovely lady who made a fine job of Katie’s hair. Skippy has composed a limerick all about Ms Tucker, but I fear we may not have enuff room for it. No Skippy, not even the first and last lines.

And wtf was it about the name?

When Son Brian’s mum went into the Queen Mum’s to give birth, we (cos I was kinda involved) had a good idea that it might be a boy or a girl. No I’m not sure why, but we felt fairly confident enuff to have names for both eventualities (and we didn’t know the sex….or indeed the gender…in advance). We called son Brian eh, Son Brian…… why could the royals not do that?

And I do understand the problem concerning any acronym arising from the initials of the names chosen. William Alfred George was a definite No-No……and William Orville George was never quoted, but hey, George Alexander Louis? GAL? The boy is scarred for life in the school playground. Having said that, rainforestriverman, did we not know someone called Gally who went on to win Superscot with Jane Franchi and his nephew? Sorry. Jane was the host.

My choice of name for the royal wean? Well given that the next days were followed by flashflooding, thunderstorms and lightning and I’m sure I saw a plague of locusts over the Viking Bar in Maryhill Road…I opted for Damien. Prince Damien of Cambridge. It has a certain ring to it.

No. I thoroughly enjoyed the whole televisual experience. Not. I kept switching on to see the ways in which the BBC, Sky and Al-Jazeera were coping…..I’m now waiting for the next draft of the domination degree to be returned to me. I’m cool. It was interesting that I bumped into another lecturer from the same office who said, ‘It’ll all be written in journalese…you’ll have to make it more academic.’

That and the fact that it is jam-packed full of primary sources, brilliant research and brand spanking new thoughts…..academia can’t handle it all…..

So a quiet week but a quick thank you to the Vampire Slayer and Missie K for the first meeting in some time which took place in the hallowed chambers of the Banqueting Suite in the Great Hall of Bar Ten in Mitchell Lane. Many decisions were made – I’d a cheese’n’onion toastie – but the usual Chatham House rules apply.

And finally, the football season is now under way….My PTFC season ticket has still to reach me but there is a new-fangled technology in place at the Field of Dreams that is Firhill and it has still to be tried out. We will be going to places I’ve not seen in years and it’s a big adventure. But one thing will keep us going this season; We Are Partick Thistle, We Score When We Want!

Cya, keep(ing) it fun and still wearing that badge? Yeah, but the next few days are quite important for it.

Johnt850, who was told by that same lecturer to turn it in and keep it hard bound.

So why is Nick Witchell a ‘scab’? Well, a scab (in trade union terms) is someone who does the work of someone else when they’re on an industrial dispute. In 1989 there was a pay dispute at the BBC from which I did not prosper as I was working three months’ notice and it was settled after I left – with no back pay.

Witchell was one of several well-known faces to cross the line that day, but for some reason (which I can’t substantiate) he is the most reviled. Not even Robert Preston is seen in the same way. Being a scab is the real reason that Prince Charles doesn’t like him. Honest.

This is my favourite piece of Household Cavalry type music; it’s from Thunderbirds – the Movie


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